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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049483">Hallelujah</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookofkevin/pseuds/bookofkevin'>bookofkevin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Book of Mormon - Ambiguous Fandom, The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety, Depression, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-Canon Uganda, The Might be Crack, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:13:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,290</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049483</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookofkevin/pseuds/bookofkevin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been five months since District 9 self-destructed. The ex-elders of Kitguli, Uganda have built a new mission in which they "help people out." No one really expected it to last even as long as it has, but as bonds have formed and plans have been shaped, they're finding a new sense of normalcy. In fact, 9 of them happen to be coping pretty dang well. 1 of them, though, is having a harder time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elder "Connor" McKinley/Kevin Price</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Hallelujah</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Connor took a step away from the small, recycled dining table, examining his work. It was close to 1:00 in the morning, but Connor’s body buzzed with energy as he leaned over, bringing his pumpkin to eye level. This was the first year he’d carved one... ever. He had bought the pumpkin from the market on a whim that afternoon and had spent the evening researching how to carve it; in hindsight, it seemed silly, but <em>what was he supposed to do with its insides</em>? Not only was it his first year carving a pumpkin, but it was his first year as an… as someone who wasn’t quite Mormon but also who didn’t quite know what he was.</p><p>The evening was hotter than typical; Connor’s brow was sticky with sweat and his newest love (<em>iced</em> coffee) was his only reprieve. Cold showers had become common practice among the entire group, and as the October heat grew more intense with every day, each of the boys had become increasingly daring with their wardrobes. What started as a shift to khaki shorts became lighter fabrics, t-shirts with sleeves cut off, sandals purchased from the market.</p><p>From his operation on the fruit, Connor spared the occasional glance at the door; he felt a wave of anxiety wash over him every few minutes. This wasn’t, however, necessarily out of the ordinary.</p><p>He’d be home soon, Connor reminded himself. It didn't matter that there was no longer a curfew or rules, nor did it matter whether or not he was in a position of leadership; he generally couldn’t sleep until he knew everyone was in for the night. For nine of them, this was a breeze. And for one of them, over the past four months or so, things had becoming increasingly difficult. Late nights became an occasional mistake, then became frequent, and now were a near constant occurrence.</p><p>With a sigh, he grabbed his knife and got back to work, putting a painstaking amount of detail into its expression. If he was going to do it, he was going to get it right. He poured over every cut, pausing to sip his coffee, letting the time get away from him.</p><p>Until finally he heard the tell-tale sounds of feet on the wooden slab of the doorstep. The jingling of keys as he fumbled with the lock. The creak of the rickety door objecting to being opened under the swell of the heat.</p><p>In the split second remaining before the inevitable confrontation (or, Connor predicted, the frustration of his roommate pushing past him on his way to his room without a glance or word), Connor decided to force his eyes back onto his work. To find a casual expression that would maybe not show any of the irrational anger (or worry) that he admittedly felt. Every. Damn. Night.</p><p>“You’re home late,” he said, as coolly as he could, not looking up. Did he sound parental? He cleared his throat. <em>Be cool.</em></p><p>It was only after Connor heard Kevin’s backpack fall to the ground that he allowed himself to shift his focus. He felt a sense of relief at seeing his bereft roommate in one piece, as he did every night, mixed with confusion and an overwhelming but unidentifiable sense of guilt. Kevin looked… tired. Connor didn’t allow himself to dwell on his features for too long, intrinsically understanding that attention, of any kind, seemed to make Kevin uncomfortable.</p><p>In the five months since he (and Arnold) had come to Uganda, Kevin’s mental state had taken an unmistakable and very overt nosedive. The first week had gone fairly well, and from there… things had gotten progressively worse. Now, not seeing Kevin at all was commonplace. Every effort of conversation being immediately shut down was something that was expected, and those efforts had become fewer and farther between. It had been days since Connor had gotten a look at him, and even longer since he’d spoken to him. In the moments when they did speak, Connor was more and more uncertain of what he should even say.</p><p>Kevin had withdrawn from everyone and everything, as far as Connor could tell. What had interested him when they first met seemed to be meaningless to him now. He’d been the first to denounce his faith among the missionary group, and Connor had often wondered if that was the straw that sent him spiraling. He suspected it was part of it, but had his moments, when his imagination got ahead of him, that he thought it went beyond that.</p><p>Regardless, there wasn’t much he could do. The church no longer oversaw them, Connor’s suggestions to call his parents or go home only went so far (on the rare occasion that he was able to sneak those suggestions in at all). He’d have pushed harder- they all would have- but Arnold held them back.</p><p><em>He’s okay</em>, Arnold would say. <em>He’s just got a lot on his mind</em>.</p><p>Where Kevin was nearly entirely isolated and detached from the group, Arnold was conversely something of the beating heart. He’d made fast friends with everyone, serving as a sort of gel that kept them intact. Due in large part to an unyielding joy that radiated off of him, Arnold had easily become, in a way, everyone’s favorite. And Arnold’s favorite? Kevin Price. From the moment he’d met him, he’d attached himself emotionally, and nothing that Kevin did (or didn’t do) was going to loosen that grip.</p><p>They were a group of teenagers who had been taught, above all else, to be kind, but at times, it still confused each and every one of them. Connor didn’t fault them for it. Whatever shift had happened in Kevin, whatever darkness had its hands wrapped around him, he wasn’t trying to hide it, and he was certainly not trying to explain it. And while, Connor thought, he didn’t owe any of them an explanation, as he withdrew further and further, it was inevitable that it would cause some looks.</p><p>Connor would overhear whispers of confusion as Arnold defended Kevin for abruptly leaving the breakfast table and disappearing for the day, or for blowing off a birthday fiesta, or for coming home in the middle of the night s- for coming in in the middle of the night sobbing. The thought sent a wave of sadness through Connor. An occasionally needed reminder that there was something broken inside the sad, isolated boy.</p><p><em>He’s a good guy,</em> Arnold would say. <em>You just don’t know him. Give him a chance</em>. If an interaction went particularly bad (which they had, several times actually, at this point), Arnold would get that look on his face, apologetic and sad and they’d all nod and agree that they were sure Kevin was a good guy, and hoped that one day he might join them for game night. On each occasion, Arnold nodded, his eyes following his best friend until he was out of sight, and even then, it was clear Arnold’s thoughts were never far from Kevin.</p><p>And for his many, <em>many</em> faults, Kevin seemed to care about Arnold, too. He stayed close to him when he was around. On the (increasingly) rare occasions where Kevin did smile, it was only in response to some terrible joke Arnold made. And in those moments, Connor would catch a glimpse at the Kevin that Arnold spoke so fondly of.</p><p>That Kevin wasn’t, unfortunately, the Kevin who stood before him now.</p><p>Connor set his knife down, leveling his gaze on the young ex-Missionary. Hair disheveled, shirt untucked. Jeans loose around his waist. Eyes tired, dark. Red.</p><p>“Sorry,” Kevin said. It didn’t exactly sound like remorse, but there was <em>something</em> new behind his voice.</p><p>His arms were wrapped around himself, his knuckles red and… raw. He noticed Connor staring and re-positioned his hands, burying them into the fabric of his sweatshirt.</p><p>“You’re hurt?” Connor took a hesitant step toward him, but stopped himself. This wasn’t a new thing. This was a thing, in fact, that Connor had come to somewhat accept.</p><p>“It’s nothing.” His eyes, nearly black in the low light of their rental, bore into Connor’s. He watched Kevin’s gaze dart quickly to the pumpkin, then back to the floor.</p><p>“Yeah.” Connor recognized the tone of his own voice and shook it off. “Do you want to help?” He grabbed the knife and held it out, keenly aware of how stupid it might be to offer <em>Kevin Price</em> a knife after he came come, bloody, at 3:00 in the morning.</p><p>Kevin looked at the pumpkin, nearly finished now, except for a few details that Connor hadn’t quite gotten to. What a ridiculous thing to offer. Kevin’s expression told him so.</p><p>And yet… Kevin took a small step forward, bending his knees a little to look at Connor’s work. And suddenly Connor felt… self conscious. He wasn’t positive that he would have offered if he thought Kevin might actually care. He’d have done something more impressive, something more noteworthy, if he thought Kevin might care. God, it’d been weeks since Kevin had shown any interest in <em>anything</em> that any of them had done. Why did it have to be his stupid pumpkin?</p><p>Kevin’s hand reached out slightly as his gaze rose to meet Connor’s. There was emotion there, something bubbling under the surface, Connor thought. He felt his breath coming heavier as Kevin’s eyes bore into his. Black, rimmed with red. Glistening. There was a rawness to his expression, like he’d been stripped down and he was ready to break and Connor allowed himself, for a moment, to think maybe-</p><p>But just as soon as it came, it disappeared. Kevin dropped his hand and turned, making a quick move to put distance between them.</p><p>Without much thought, Connor reached out and grabbed his wrist. He immediately recognized his mistake as a look of panic crossed Kevin’s features, which quickly shifted to something darker.</p><p>Stoney anger, which was, Connor thought, better than the nothingness of the last several weeks.</p><p>“Let go of me.” His voice was flat but there was an edge to it; almost a tone of warning. Eerily quiet. Where, if he weren’t standing so close, he might not have heard it at all. Connor was a lot of things, but he was not, at least at this moment, afraid of Kevin. </p><p>Still, he was making Kevin uncomfortable, and an even worse thought, the one telling him that perhaps <em>Kevin</em> was afraid of <em>him, </em>danced across his mind. He let his wrist go immediately. “I’m sorry,” he said, taking a step back.</p><p>Kevin’s hand found his wrist, rubbing it gingerly, and Connor wondered for a moment if he had hurt him. It hadn’t felt like his grip was too tight, but maybe he’d scratched him, or maybe there was a fresh injury that he’d agitated. The thought put knots in his stomach. Surprisingly, though, Kevin didn’t immediately retreat. So Connor took the chance.</p><p>“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it.</p><p>“Nothing." He paused for a moment, his eyes searching Connor's. "I’m fine. I’m going to take a shower, head to bed. Enjoy your-” he gestured toward the pumpkin, the guts, the knife.</p><p>“Wait-” Connor said, his words coming faster than he could think. “Just-” Kevin stopped. “Are you okay? Really, you-”</p><p>“You don’t have to do this,” Kevin said abruptly, his voice intentionally low but with a sharpness, aware of the hour and his roommates sleeping but still emotionally charged.</p><p>“No, I know, I-”</p><p>“No,” Kevin cut him off again. “I need you to not do this.”</p><p>Connor began to speak again, and Kevin took a somewhat assertive step toward him, knuckles white. <em>He wasn't going to hit him?</em> Instinctively, Connor took a step back, his hands up.</p><p>“Whatever this is, this- misguided attempt to save me from myself or whatever story you’ve cooked up for me, just- just don’t.” He dropped his hands and turned then, retreating.</p><p>Connor stood still, staring after the boy as he padded softly to the bathroom, as he eased the door shut, careful to be as quiet as he could be.</p><p>Well. It was more words than he’d gotten from Kevin over the last two months. It was more emotion than he’d seen over the last two months. It was certainly more eye contact than he’d gotten, probably in the last four months combined. He tried to shake it off. He turned back to the pumpkin, forcing himself to focus on what he was doing.</p><p>It wasn’t his job to worry about Kevin. It wasn’t his job to stay up and wait for him to get home, or to try to talk to him, or to press him to call his parents or a doctor or a pastor or someone who was remotely qualified to determine if he was okay. Still, while it wasn’t his job, he found that he was unable to stop himself from trying.</p><p>He glanced up at the closed bathroom door when he heard the shower turn on, taking a sip of his coffee. He carved and he carved until the water stopped, until the door opened, and until he heard Kevin retreat to his room.</p><p>He looked over his work once more. He wrote his name on the back in sharpie. He’d looked forward to doing that since he was five years old and he saw his next-door-neighbor’s pumpkin on their porch. It didn't pack the emotional punch that he thought it would, but his mind was admittedly preoccupied. He picked it up carefully and set it outside, next to the door. He'd try to sleep. He wasn't sure how successful he would be.</p>
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